“Is to arrest you on the charge of murder. Here is the warrant,” said the other very gravely. “I must, as a matter of form, caution you against making any statement, though as a magistrate yourself, sir, you will be aware of this formality.”
“Yes, the warrant is all right,” he said, running his eye over it and noting idly that it was signed by a man with whom he had next to no personal acquaintance.
The sword had fallen at last. Was he dazed—was he dreaming—or was he really stunned? Was he, Roland Dorrien—one of the most influential men in the county, and lord of this noble patrimony whose limits he could not see from his highest window—was he, indeed, a prisoner, henceforth no longer master of the simplest of his own actions? Horror incredible!
Something of this must have appeared in his aspect as he turned away, for the detective watched him keenly.
“Let me see. I don’t know whether you will prevent my just saying a word to Mrs Dorrien before I go with you. She is rather unwell this morning, and this in addition will try her dreadfully.”
The officer shook his head.
“I’m extremely sorry, sir, but it can’t be done. You see I’m bound not to lose sight of you, and if I were to go with you it would frighten the lady still more.”
Roland faced round upon him.
“Listen. What if I were to pledge you my word of honour to return to you here in ten minutes?”
For half a moment the detective wavered. Then he shook his head very gravely.